


If I Went and Lost Myself, Would You Know Where to Find Me?

by eleventy_three



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eleventy_three/pseuds/eleventy_three
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story takes place beginning with Sherlock's return, and follows the subsequent reintegration of his and John's lives. It's told from John's point of view, and it is mostly about John avoiding and eventually coming to terms with his out-of-the-ordinary relationship with Sherlock. I love fluff so there is fluff throughout.</p><p>The title is from "Hazy" by Rosi Golan because the song so cute and I think it describes Sherlock and John's relationship quite nicely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John stared blankly at the calendar hanging on the wall. He’d finished his breakfast ages ago, but hadn’t yet gathered the energy to stand up and get the day started. He heard movement in the next room, a shuffling of papers, and looked up. 

Nothing was there, but he’d known that even before he looked. He was more than used to hearing and seeing things. In fact, it was to the point where he began to think something was wrong if it was a few days between one illusion and the next. It had, of course, crossed his mind that it wasn’t normal, but ever since Sherlock died, he didn’t have motivation to do much of anything, much less fix this.

John sat, mentally reviewing his symptoms, and came to the conclusion that he was suffering from something akin to phantom limb. He had seen actual cases of the condition as a doctor in the army, and it was tragic. Soldiers would lose limbs, but they would still feel as if the lost appendage was attached. The missing limb would ‘itch’ or ‘fall asleep’ but when the soldier went to touch it, nothing was there. It was an affliction that acted as a constant, painful reminder of the loss they had suffered. 

Ironically enough, John reflected, although he still had all four limbs, he felt like a man that had lost all of them at once. The illusions he saw were the ‘itches’ and when he tried to focus on the vision or sound, nothing was there. He knew it was pathetic, and that no one would understand, which is why he told almost no one. Without Sherlock, John was completely and utterly lost to the world. 

He’d told Mrs. Hudson about the things he saw, and she reacted with sympathy and understanding. She suggested that it might be good for him to go away, to live somewhere else. She told him she would always be there for him, but they both needed to find lives without Sherlock. And even though John knew that was necessary, he could never – not in three, long years – bring himself to leave 221B. 

John dragged his mind back to reality, and looked back at the wall calendar. It was exactly three years to the day since Sherlock had died, and John planned to visit the cemetery that morning. He hated this day, and he hated the graveyard. But it did provide something he couldn’t find anywhere else – escape from the illusions. In all the times he’d visited Sherlock’s grave, he had never seen the things, the things that seemed to plague him everywhere else he went. 

The visions were the worst in the flat, and this didn’t surprise John. Every so often he would think he heard Sherlock talking to him, or see him walking around in the corner of his eye, only to turn his head and feel his heart drop yet again. He was fully aware that he set himself up for this perpetual heartbreak, but fighting against it seemed futile.

John knew it made no logical sense, but the illusions were all he had left of Sherlock, and they somehow comforted him. He thought if he left the flat, they would disappear, and Sherlock would be gone for good. Staying around the illusions was John’s last, desperate attempt to cling to what had been, and while he knew what it must look like from the outside, he couldn’t bring himself to care – not anymore. 

*****

John mindlessly washed out his plate and mug, and began preparing for the day he knew would be both physically and emotionally draining.

When he stepped outside to hail a cab, a dull mist filled the air. He recited the address to the cabbie, and gazed emptily out the window. Mrs. Hudson almost always accompanied him when he visited the cemetery, especially on the anniversary of the day that still caused John to shudder involuntarily, but she was away visiting her sister, and therefore John was left to go alone. 

His thoughts were empty for the duration of the cab ride, and eventually, the car came to a stop in the gravel drive of the cemetery. John told the driver not to wait; he didn’t want anyone nearby and he really didn’t know how long he would be. He paid, and slowly made his way nearer to Sherlock’s grave. 

John gave a fleeting thought to his leg, which always seemed to get worse on cold, drizzly days like today. His thoughts then drifted to the night he’d run off without his cane, following Sherlock as they carried out their first case together. He hadn’t notice that he left it in Angelo’s until they were back at the flat, and he fondly remembered the feeling of elation that the realization, coupled with adrenaline, had given him. That was the first time he’d been happy in a very long time. 

John always tried to think of the good times when he visited Sherlock’s grave, because the visits would simply be unbearable otherwise. However, despite his valiant efforts, he was usually still brought to tears. 

_No matter how long it’s been_ , he thought, _there is no easy way to recover from the loss of one’s best friend_.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as John was within sight of Sherlock’s headstone, he knew something wasn’t right. He smelled cigarette smoke, but there was no one in sight. A cursory glace around showed no signs of recent footprints in the damp grass, either.

 _This is new_ , John thought, slightly defeated. He had yet to smell things that reminded him of Sherlock, and to be honest, it was the last thing he expected, especially here. He continued forward, and when the gravestone began to take shape in the fog, a figure rose up from behind it.

“Goddamn it, no,” John muttered, stopping dead in his tracks. “Why are you doing this to me? It’s bad enough that you haunt me at home, because no matter what I do, I can’t leave. I used to be able to come here and not see this… this phantom you. Just be here with what is left of the real you. Be in peace. But why is this seeing things getting worse? This sort of thing is supposed to get _better_ as time goes on, and here I am plummeting faster into insanity.”

This was the last straw. It’d been three years, and John realized at that moment that he would not make it another year if something didn’t change. He wondered what that something would be – did he really have the energy or the desire to struggle through what it would take to move on? That he decided to push out of his mind and decide later. He chose to focus all his attention on the vision before him.

During John’s internal debate, the figure had come around the gravestone and was striding towards him. It stopped, and John stared at it, wondering why it was so much more vivid than any of the others. The smell of cigarette smoke came from the figure, and John could see the bright glow of the cigarette in it's hand. He grew madder by the second at his own mind for casting these illusions on him.

“John, it’s me. I’m not dead,” the figure spoke abruptly, in a voice John never thought he would hear again. 

_Oh, great, it’s talking at me. I am officially insane_ , he thought. 

Through the foggy mist, John now focused on a pair of piercing eyes staring straight at him. He squinted, and began taking steps backward, calculating the likelihood of being able to outrun this insanely realistic illusion, should it decide to chase after him. 

“No,” John responded, attempting to keep his voice even, “Sherlock is dead. He has been for three years, and you are one of the things I see constantly. You’re my brain trying to trick me into thinking he isn’t gone, and I’m not dealing with this shit anymore. You are a phantom limb and you need to stop.”

The figure blinked slowly and questioned, “John, why isn’t Mrs. Hudson with you? She comes with you, she was supposed to be here today because I know you see things and I know she doesn’t. She was… Of course. I should have known she would be at her sister’s… This isn’t… John, please…” At this, the voice trailed off, as if unsure as to how it should proceed.

John’s mind was quickly becoming as foggy as the graveyard itself was, and he decided to stick with the facts – or at least, what he believed had to be the facts. He began steadily repeating phrases to the effect of: Sherlock is dead. You are not him. Please stop this. 

He kept his eyes trained on the figure’s eyes, astounded at the power of his own imagination. He thought in the back of his mind that he would have to schedule an appointment with his therapist as soon as he got home because this whole thing was not ok. 

After the fourth or fifth time John had repeated his newly acquired mantra, he saw the blue eyes cloud over, and the face fall. He thought that this vision was strangely expressive and he stopped talking, all of a sudden exhausted. John turned, and began hobbling away as quickly as his leg – which had suddenly become nearly impossible to work with – would allow him. He didn’t see the point in continuing this odd and useless battle with his own imagination.

The figure reacted instantaneously and lunged behind him, roughly grabbing his arm and dragging him back. At this, John dropped his cane and slugged the phantom, Sherlock, whatever-it-was, in the eye, using every ounce of pent-up grief and anger he had. 

It certainly felt as if he punched a real person, and John shook out his fist as the man reeled back and fell to the ground.

“John, please. I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry,” the man lamented from the grass, his hand over his left eye.

John stood over the man, scrutinizing him from various angles. He was wearing what John would expect the real Sherlock to wear – button up shirt that was just a bit too tight, blue scarf, and coat, complete with the collar turned up dramatically. This however, meant little to John, as the illusions he saw in the corners of his eyes always wore the coat, even in the dead heat of summer. He nudged the man’s shoulder gently with the toe of his boot, beginning to question the illusion, and not really wanting to hurt Sherlock any more if it actually was him. 

“You can’t do this, you know. Just pop back up after three years. You have no idea… the torment I went through,” John choked, “What do you think you are doing?”

A tiny grin crept across Sherlock’s face as he noticed John had unconsciously started addressing him as Sherlock directly. 

“For God’s sake, stop smiling. This isn’t funny, Sherlock.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I – ah, can I explain to you? I am real, by the way. I want to reiterate that. I don’t go about pretending to be a ghost, that isn’t something I generally find worthy of my time.”

All John could manage was a confused stare. He was completely overwhelmed by the past few minutes and his brain could not process the flood of questions suddenly jumbled in his head. If Sherlock was back, where did he go in the first place? Why did disappear? Why didn’t he tell John? Did he tell anyone? Why was he gone for three years? But one question rose quickly to the surface of his mind:

“How did you fake it?” John asked after a moment, obviously dying of curiosity. He reached down hesitantly and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, pulling him upright. The instant their hands met, a shiver shot up John’s spine, which he attributed to the surreal events that had just taken place. He looked at Sherlock, and seeing the uncharacteristic, uninhibited happiness in his eyes, allowed a cautious smile to cross his face.

They walked shoulder-to-shoulder back to the main road, as if the proximity assured both of them that the other was no longer a figment of the imagination. They got a cab and rode silently back to Baker Street, John’s mind still racing and Sherlock allowing John’s mind to race uninterrupted, content simply to be in his presence after so long.


	3. Chapter 3

Neither Sherlock nor John talked much until they had reached their flat and settled into their armchairs. John found himself marveling at the sight of Sherlock sitting there, legs outstretched, in the chair that had sat empty and taunted him for so many endless nights in the past years. 

John spoke first, repeating his earlier question, “So, how did you do it?”

“That part was easy,” Sherlock dismissed. “Molly helped with that. She is the only one that knew I wasn’t dead, but of course she couldn’t tell anyone, and she didn’t.” Sherlock continued, explaining the logistics of it all. The fall itself was simple physics, followed by careful medical attention and a friend at the morgue, _obviously_. 

Sherlock then launched into the details of his three years, explaining how he couldn't tell anyone where he was, and discussing his efforts to eradicate all of Moriarty’s henchmen, of which there were plenty. John listened, but at the same time, he began sorting through his own thoughts. 

_Unless I am dying and hallucinating as I die_ , he rationalized, _Sherlock really is alive_. John couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment in the cemetery that he realized it was Sherlock standing in front of him, but he did know that when they left, he felt like he had just been rescued from drowning. He still felt like he had just been rescued. 

The feeling itself was ridiculous – John had dozens of unanswered questions, yet he was incredibly relieved and oddly at peace, without having any answers. He knew, for the first time in three years, that everything was going to be ok. Even though he had no idea how Sherlock had done it, Sherlock being in front of him produced an instant calming effect that John couldn’t explain and didn’t necessarily want to. His phantom limb had restored itself, and the ghostly itches vanished. 

He watched Sherlock telling his story, his eyes bright and his hands fiddling with the air as he spoke. John couldn’t formulate concrete thoughts to express how much he had longed for this moment, and his mind drifted back and forth between conscious thought and unconscious, raw feeling. It was surreal. John felt like he had been catapulted into a parallel universe where things suddenly made sense. He wasn’t lost. And though he couldn’t really think, he was somehow thinking more clearly than he had in three years. 

Sherlock saying, “It was pure hell,” brought John back to the present. He looked up, and met Sherlock’s intense stare as he continued, “Keeping silent for so long. Not telling Lestrade or Mycroft – though he probably knew where I was the whole time – or Mrs. Hudson or… or you. Countless times, I contemplated giving up. I didn’t know what you were doing and I thought about dying. I think it would have been easier than… than eventually coming home and… uh, finding things different – finding you not here…” 

He stopped talking and John detected something foreign in his voice and quickly identified it. Much to his horror, it was sentiment, and John had no idea what to do with it. He did not relish discussing emotion at any length, and he instantly decided he would rather run away than discuss it with Sherlock for any reason… at least right now. 

“It’s, um, it’s ok,” John said, “It was pretty awful here, too.” That didn’t even begin to describe life at 221B Baker Street without Sherlock, but John wasn’t about to get into the details. He continued, “Lestrade was lost without you; he actually consulted Anderson for serious advice a few times,” and he finished with a slightly forced laugh.

At this, Sherlock smiled, and seemed to overcome his bout of disadvantageous emotion. The two men then turned to the issue of informing their friends of Sherlock’s reappearance. They discussed the least startling way to inform Mrs. Hudson, as well as the most dramatic way to inform Scotland Yard. Sherlock would also have to pay Mycroft a visit, although he would most likely reprimand him, and then make him justify every movement he’d made that was caught on CCTVs across the world. 

Sherlock and John talked through the afternoon and evening, and John didn’t even glance up at the clock until nearly midnight. He wasn’t tired in the least – drinking innumerable cups of tea and having an impossible dream come true have a way of warding off sleepiness. Through their conversation, John surmised that their lives had been equally bleak, though his was a bit less dangerous, in the time they were apart. Not much had happened in John’s life that he believed was worth reliving, however they didn’t seem to run out of things to say.

At 2 am, John forced himself to go to bed. He had to work a shift at the hospital the next day and he couldn’t call off, given the fact that he had done so far too much in the past few months. He was partially surprised they hadn’t let him go yet; his work when he did show up had been sub-par at best. He owed his colleagues an apology, but he was suddenly confident that he could make it up to them. 

Sleep was the last thing John felt like doing that night – he was still a bit terrified that Sherlock’s return was all a dream. If he went to bed, there was a strong possibility that he would wake up the next morning alone again, but he knew he had to face the possibility. As he made his way up the stairs, he heard Sherlock crack open his violin case, which John had kept neatly tucked away in the corner. 

He brushed his teeth to the sounds of Sherlock tuning the violin and testing the strings and bow, and he fell asleep to the notes of his favorite sonata drifting upstairs. In the moments before sleep overtook his mind, he wondered if Sherlock really remembered that was the song he loved the most.


	4. Chapter 4

For a man that was dead to the world for three years and who had not exactly been socially adept when he was alive, Sherlock readjusted to life with ease. Everyone was surprised at his reappearance, but after all, he _was_ Sherlock Holmes. Had a normal person fallen off a roof and shown up alive and well a few years later, their level of surprise may have been greater. 

A week after his return, Sherlock had already amassed a variety of body parts and he conducted experiments as fervently as if he hadn’t been absent for 36 months. Lestrade was temporarily keeping him off cases, ‘so he could get used to things,’ but Sherlock was wearing his patience thin. Sherlock was confident he’d be back to work in a few weeks, if not days. Spending his time solely on experiments got boring incredibly quickly. 

John, on the other hand, did not adapt as effortlessly. He was no longer on the brink of insanity, but he still struggled in trying to understand why things felt strange. Obviously, it was unrealistic to expect that everything would be _exactly_ the way it was before, and he didn’t want that anyway. The change was not a bad thing; however, it did give John a peculiar sensation. 

A few things in particular caught John’s attention, one of which was Sherlock’s seemingly newfound concern for John’s feelings. Sherlock suddenly appeared more considerate of John than he ever had been before. ‘Considerate’ was, of course, a relative term – considerate Sherlock piled the dishes he used in experiments in the sink, while inconsiderate Sherlock would have let the chemicals steep on the counter indefinitely. Time warps memory, but John was fairly certain that Sherlock was more attentive than he had been three years ago. Only once did he ask John to fetch something he could have easily reached himself, and he didn't seem to talk to John when he wasn't in the room.

At first, John assumed this was Sherlock’s way of making up for his disappearing act. If that was the case, it was an odd way of apologizing, but then again, odd was characteristic for Sherlock. Then John wondered if he was simply reading too much into it all. He had been so starved for Sherlock that when he finally had him back, he probably overanalyzed his every move. 

Needless to say, it was a bit overwhelming to have Sherlock back in John’s world. The illusions had been replaced with the actual man, and sometimes John was hit with sensory overload. Sherlock's presence sometimes startled him. John would walk around the corner, see Sherlock, and involuntarily twitch with surprise, always hoping Sherlock didn't notice. Sherlock, however, seemed content and completely oblivious to John’s mental quandary. John decided that he didn’t have to try and figure it all out right away. He knew that Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere, and that was more than enough for the time being.


	5. Chapter 5

As predicted, Lestrade gave up trying to keep Sherlock away from cases within a few days. He mumbled something about the case being difficult and time-sensitive when he called Sherlock one morning, but both Sherlock and John knew it was because Lestrade had secretly missed working with Sherlock. 

As soon as the call disconnected, Sherlock jumped up from the couch and stepped over the coffee table. He snatched up his coat and scarf and threw John’s jacket at him. 

“We’ve got a case!” Sherlock shouted at John, already halfway down the stairs. 

John followed him out the door, giving only half a thought to just how right everything felt. He didn’t have to question this, because this was exactly what he and Sherlock had always been perfect at.

*****

The case took them to the shady side of London. From what John gathered, there had been a double murder at a strip club and apparently, no one knew anything about it. The police had already tried interviewing the club owner and the escorts who had been working the night before, but they hadn’t gotten anywhere. Lestrade had called Sherlock because there was a curious lack of evidence, given the messy double homicide in front of them.

“The owner, a Mr. George Biron, won’t say _anything_ ,” he explained as Sherlock and John arrived on the scene. “He should be compliant, seeing as how the reputation of his club – which is rather good, I guess, considering the nature of the business – is on the line. We also need his employees to help, but they know that Biron isn’t talking and they don’t feel safe doing so either, I suppose.”

Sherlock made his way into the building, noting the location of every exit as he marched to the adjacent private rooms in which two customers had been murdered. The bodies had already been removed, which irked Sherlock. No matter how careful people thought they were being, they always ended up tampering with evidence that would have made solving the case easier – not that he couldn’t do it without that evidence. 

John stood in the doorway, watching Sherlock dart around the rooms, measuring the distance between things John couldn’t even see and sniffing the air. There was blood splattered in both rooms, but in one, the furniture seemed untouched while the other was rather disheveled. 

John started making his own preliminary deductions, remembering that Sherlock had always shown a bit of pride when John was able to come to some conclusion by simple observation. However, he found his deductive skills a bit rusty after three years of very limited use. He decided he’d let Sherlock do all the thinking this time around, and just be there if he needed him. He really didn’t mind watching.

“Clearly, the same man killed both victims. It was a man, because it wasn’t one of the escorts and female patrons are a bit rare in this sort of establishment,” Sherlock began, wrinkling his nose. “The second one knew what was coming and put up a fight, hence the overturned furniture, but the first was caught by surprise. He obviously knew the murderer and was expecting him, otherwise he would have no doubt reacted negatively to a stranger entering a room he had supposedly bought up for a private dance. The question is, who did it? And how did he get the escorts to leave the room? Because they didn’t actually witness the murders, he wasn’t _that_ stupid. These men were regular customers here. They knew the escorts, and they knew owner. They all know what happened, but there is a reason they aren’t telling anyone. They’re scared,” Sherlock rattled on, “Where are they? I need to talk to them all.”

Lestrade pointed him out a side door, and they found Sally Donovan with Mr. Biron and four of his employees. She was half-heartedly asking questions, but John could tell that she was frustrated as they approached. 

She pulled them aside, saying, “The owner claims he was in the office the whole night and didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. They have security tapes, but not in the private rooms themselves, and we’ve not gotten much from the ones they do have. The escorts report only normal activities throughout the whole night, up until the murders were reported, of course. Apparently the two girls that were with the victims had both left the rooms for some undisclosed reason, and then when they returned, they found dead bodies. They won’t tell me why they left, or how long they were gone, or anything.” With that, she walked away, leaving Sherlock, John and Lestrade with the witnesses. 

“Allow me,” Sherlock stated as he moved toward the small cluster of people. 

Both John and Lestrade watched as Sherlock approached Mr. George Biron, introducing himself and placing his hand cordially on the man’s arm. Biron, even from a distance, looked equally suave and obnoxious. He wore an ill-fitting suit in a tawdry shade of brown and his hair had been very well greased. Sherlock gently guided Biron out of earshot, and began what appeared to be _chatting_.

Sherlock manipulated the conversation, relaxing his tall frame and transforming into someone that not only looked approachable, but also understanding. John analyzed the interaction from afar, and had he not known what was really happening, he would have thought that Sherlock was flirting with the club owner. He was smiling, and he kept touching the man’s arm. At one point, Biron even laughed, and John wondered how on earth Sherlock, the man who was notoriously inappropriate in social situations, was able to make a potential murder suspect so comfortable that he _laughed_ while being questioned. 

After a couple of minutes, Sherlock released Biron, and when he walked past John and Lestrade, he was smiling. He looked almost as if Sherlock had blindfolded him and spun him around and around, then removed the blindfold and set him going in a completely different direction. Like they were playing with a piñata at a birthday party. John couldn’t tell if the man had any idea that he had just been used.

Sherlock charmed all the escorts in much the same way. He talked with them, joked with them, and then sent them on their way. John looked on, baffled at his friend’s extreme and rather unexpected capabilities in the art of flirtation. Each woman looked equally as dazed as Biron had, and John couldn’t help but wonder what was happening. 

After Sherlock had finished questioning the last escort, he announced, “It was Biron’s brother. He’s the real owner of the club; he just gave it to his brother because he felt pity for him. I’m rather surprised he isn’t here, meddling. His absence is making him look rather suspicious. Perhaps he’s trying his hand at reverse psychology, although that rarely works when one has a fool brother who suffers from an inferiority complex that is written all over his face.” 

“Do we need to take these people in for further questioning?” Lestrade asked, clearly impressed at the speed with which Sherlock carried out his investigation.

“No, that won’t be necessary. Biron’s brother killed the men over a business deal gone bad – very dull and unoriginal – and no one noticed anything out of the ordinary until the men were dead, because he was obviously a common face around there. Nobody thought he was capable of such a thing, et cetera. Really though, it is always the people that ‘would never do such a thing.’ That should be expected,” he remarked, obviously disgusted with the majority of humanity in that respect. 

Sherlock explained the witnesses’ previous hesitation in answering questions, completely ignoring the part about where he charmed them all senseless. George Biron was terrified of his brother and felt trapped under his shadow, and the escorts were afraid of losing their jobs. The police should have no trouble finding the murderous Biron brother, and there was really nothing else to be done. John could see in Sherlock’s face that he was already getting bored, and not long after, they were on their way back to the flat.

*****

Later that day, John began typing up his report of the case after engaging in an argument with Sherlock over whether or not it was worth posting. In Sherlock’s eyes, it had been nothing but a disappointment and an utter waste of time, but to John, it was a sign that they were getting back to their old ways. And that made him happier than words could describe.

When John started on the paragraph about Sherlock’s interrogation of the witnesses, he stopped and looked up at Sherlock, who was staring out the window. 

“What did you say to those people today? You charmed the hell out of them, and normally you don’t have any sense for other people’s feelings.”

Sherlock spun on his heel and eyed John, “That isn’t true,” he snapped and with a wave of his hand, continued, “But those people were easy. That sort of thing is human nature. Everyone wants attention; you just have to know how to give it to them to get what you want. I find flattery works quite well. I can be charming when I want to be, you know that.”

“So why aren’t you pleasant more often?”

“Most of the time, people aren’t worth the effort being pleasant takes. My energies are better spent elsewhere. There are some people that are worth it though,” Sherlock trailed off, holding eye contact with John, and then shaking his head abruptly. 

“Alright then, try it on me. As far as I know, you have never manipulated me like that – but who knows. I want to see your skills in action. Come on,” John challenged. He was curious to see what effect, if any, Sherlock’s crafted charms would have on him. After the words came out, he immediately felt apprehensive, but dismissed it. He wasn't gay, so what was there to be afraid of?

“Ah, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I, um, I don’t care about… It doesn’t work like that,” Sherlock stammered. 

“What? I already know you, nothing will surprise me. Come on, manipulate me like you do everyone else – _it’s an experiment_ ,” John said with a smile, using one of Sherlock’s favorite phrases on him. 

“I really don’t think…" Sherlock continued, but then narrowed his eyes, "Fine, stand up.”

John did so, and went over to Sherlock at the window. In one swift movement, John was backed against the wall and Sherlock, with his hand on the window next to John’s head, blocked any path by which he could have escaped. Sherlock towered over him, then leveled his eyes with John’s. His eyes smoldered, but at the same time, had a softness that John had never noticed before – not that he spent inordinate amounts of time staring into Sherlock’s luminous eyes. Had they always been luminous? When did he start using words like ‘luminous’ to describe anything about Sherlock?

It dawned on John that Sherlock was terrifying. He had him trapped against the window, and John knew full well the brute strength his lithe body was capable of. He couldn't get away if he wanted to. Rarely were the two of them in such close proximity, and even when they were, there had never been this level of tension. 

Sherlock gazed silently at John for a split second, then opened his mouth to speak. John quickly realized that he had overestimated his immunity to Sherlock’s allure. In fact, his immunity was nonexistent. Sherlock’s voice was somehow deeper than it usually was, and John’s mind was racing. He had to focus intently just to hear the words Sherlock was saying.

“John, I missed you. You have no idea how much. I was lost without you, and I couldn’t bear it...”

 _What is happening?_ John thought, _This is not what Sherlock says to other people. Sherlock doesn’t say this to anyone._ And with that, his coherent thoughts ended.

Sherlock’s presence was completely overpowering, and John felt as if he was melting. Had he been able to tear his eyes from Sherlock’s hypnotizing stare, he may have been able to recover his power to function, but he knew it was impossible and part of him didn’t want to even try. 

John heard Sherlock’s voice cascading through words that no longer held meaning, he watched his lips moving, and felt his eyes glowing. Sherlock was saying something about how John was unlike anyone else he had ever met, and as he spoke, his hand moved from the window to the back of John’s head. The glass had made his hand cold, and the contrast to John’s own body temperature – which had risen significantly – sent a remarkable chill down his spine. Unconsciously, he leaned his head back, allowing Sherlock’s cold fingers to run through his hair. 

His touch was unlike any other John had felt. He could sense the power behind it, yet was simultaneously surprised at how gentle and graceful it was. Sherlock played with his hair, tugging softly at it while still managing to maintain his terrifying stance.

He was miraculously still talking, his face moving closer and closer to John’s in almost imperceptible increments. John had long-since given up trying to listen to what he was saying. Instead, he picked up his arms, which had been hanging limply at his sides, and placed one hand on Sherlock’s cheek. 

“It’s ok,” he mumbled, the somewhat irrelevant phrase seeming most appropriate in his mind at the moment. 

Sherlock's eyes widened and he suddenly pulled back, “No, it isn’t. Oh God, forget this… I knew this was not good.” He dropped his hand and very nearly leaped away from John.

With that, Sherlock vanished out the door. John stared after him, stunned, and managed to make it to the couch before he slumped into a confused heap.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was back the next morning, and he sat watching John eat his breakfast as usual. John had feared things would be hideously awkward, given the unprecedented scene the previous evening, however nothing appeared amiss. If Sherlock was going to forget whatever it was that had happened, John was wholeheartedly for ignoring it as well. One thing he excelled at was avoiding the discussion of emotion.

Deep in his stomach, John acknowledged it probably wasn’t healthy to avoid such an issue – considering it concerned his relationship with the most important person in his world – but even so, he didn’t want to be the one that brought it up. He knew Sherlock would not visit it again of his own accord because he had already displayed a crippling amount of sentiment, so John began thinking through his options and mentally exhausting all possibilities. He was floundering in thoughts he couldn’t identify, and he hoped creating a mental map would help.

If he did nothing, he figured there were two options:  
1\. Things continued as if Sherlock had never partially seduced John. On the surface, this seemed like the most desirable of all outcomes, because John didn’t have to think about his feelings regarding Sherlock. However, this had to be weighed with the other possible, and more terrifying, outcome of doing nothing.   
2\. John suddenly wasn’t enough for Sherlock. Although they were completely in sync in every other aspect of life, the incident had made it clear that there was a disparity between their expectations. If Sherlock left because John appeared unwilling or unable to give him something he needed, John knew life wouldn’t be worth living. Especially since he already knew he was willing to do anything to make Sherlock happy.

If John said something, there were two completely different options:  
1\. Sherlock dismissed the situation as faulty sentiment. This option seemed nearly as optimal as the one where they both ignored it completely, but John couldn’t convince himself that he would be content with it. Merely thinking about Sherlock brushing it off left John feeling almost rejected. In a backhand way, it would be like John had professed his love but Sherlock didn’t want it, and John couldn’t very well face that. But compared to the next outcome…  
2\. Sherlock expressed some form of romantic feeling for John. If this scenario played out, John would be forced to examine the nature of _his_ feelings for Sherlock. He wasn’t gay, so Sherlock’s being a man created an obvious issue. People didn’t just ‘become gay’ on a whim. While analyzing, it dawned on John for the first time that maybe it was only Sherlock. This possibility brought with it a whole host of other questions, considering John had never seen anything like it before. But of course, the response to nearly everything Sherlock did and was arose yet again – he was not like any other person.

*****

As the weeks turned into months, life on Baker Street settled into a relatively peaceful rhythm. John, stumped when trying to understand any motive behind Sherlock’s behavior, concentrated on other things. He now enjoyed working at the hospital, and often picked up extra shifts when demand for the blogger/consulting detective duo slowed. His colleagues forgave him for his previously miserable work, clearly accepting that his happiness was tied, however inexplicably, to Sherlock.

John even began dating again, but honestly, it was only because he felt like he should. Nothing in _that_ realm had changed – he would find a nice girl that would inevitably leave him because she couldn’t compete with Sherlock. This time around though, it barely bothered John. Mostly because he knew there was more than a little truth to it. But, not willing to unpack his true feelings on the issue any further, he continued dating women.


	7. Chapter 7

One afternoon, Sherlock and John found themselves with nothing to do. It was raining, but it was a bright rain that created a warm, cozy atmosphere in the flat. Sherlock puttered about at the kitchen counter, performing a tame experiment of some kind. John was trying to read a medical journal, but his mind kept wandering. He stood up to make a batch of tea, as tea always soothed him.

Sherlock, engrossed in his experiment, seemed unaware of the fact that John was trying to get into the cabinet behind him. The water began boiling, and John gave up his tactful maneuvers. He awkwardly reached over and around Sherlock’s head to grab his mug and in doing so, he was closer to Sherlock than he had been since the incident. He automatically tensed at the proximity, but at the same time, it was nice. 

John hesitated, and noticed that Sherlock’s hair smelled good. It was a bit musky and warm – could a scent be warm? John inhaled, almost unconsciously, but he lingered a millisecond too long. Sherlock peered up at John as he scrambled to find a clean mug. John quickly tried to remember if Melanie’s – his most recent girlfriend – hair had smelled nice. Surely it had, and surely noticing the pleasant smell of someone’s hair was not unusual. John assured himself he remembered what many people’s hair smelled like after it was freshly washed. But he could not recall what Melanie’s hair had ever smelled like, even though they dated for about two months and had _just_ broken up. Was it… 

“Artificial rainwater, John,” Sherlock’s first words all afternoon interrupted John’s attempts at justifying his slightly uncharacteristic observation.

“What?” John was startled and baffled by his friend’s unwarranted statement. 

Sherlock responded, “Your last girlfriend used shampoo that supposedly smelled like rainwater, although the rain itself rarely has a smell. Rather, it is the dirt, pavement and such, that the rainwater falls on and soaks that gives rain the smell people so often falsely attribute to the actual precipitation. If anything, that scent should be called wet concrete.”

Sherlock was right, naturally, but John failed to see how he had read his mind, or for that matter, how he knew what shampoo Melanie had used, considering that he clearly did not remember her name. 

“How did you know I was thinking about Melanie’s shampoo?” John asked. 

“Well you were trying to think about it. I _heard_ you inhale above my head, you do sometimes breathe loudly. I just took a shower. You noticed the scent of my hair, and you surprised yourself by noticing, and obviously thought it was strange enough that you should probably justify it by remembering what other peoples’ hair smells like. But you couldn’t.”

“But how do you know what shampoo Melanie used? Or that she was who I was thinking of?” John continued, not becoming any more enlightened.

“She was your last girlfriend, and the last person you have been in close contact with, so naturally she would be the first you would think of when it comes to hair scents. And I know that it is so-called ‘rainwater’ because you used her shampoo the seven times you showered at her house after spending the night,” Sherlock responded without hesitation. 

John stared at Sherlock, impressed as usual at his quick deductions, but this time he knew there was something more to it. His eyes searched Sherlock’s, as he wondered why his ever-efficient mind had not instantly discarded that rather useless information and why he had even noticed the warm scent that lingered in his hair in the first place. But Sherlock’s eyes darkened and narrowed, rendering them unfathomable to John. He turned to pour his tea, asking if Sherlock would like any, but he had returned his attention to his experiment and did not answer. 

Tea in hand, John returned to his medical journal but didn’t even bother to look at the words printed on the page. He was trying to fit the past few moments into his mental map of his bizarre relationship with Sherlock instead.


	8. Chapter 8

Not long after that rainy afternoon, Sherlock began spending inordinate amounts of time in the lab at St. Bart’s, as he was at the threshold of some scientific discovery having to do with bacteria. He was just thrilled about it, and returned to Baker Street only when necessary. When he was home, he dashed about, anxious to return to the lab.

When John wasn’t working himself, he would watch Sherlock run around, often telling him, “You know, you’re going to get sick playing with germs like that all day.”

“Isn’t that what you do, also? “Play with germs”? Besides, I never get sick.” Sherlock always replied snarkily, popping his head back in to smile at John.

This went on for nearly a week before John noticed that Sherlock actually did look ill. He wasn’t leaping around nearly as quickly as he normally did, and he looked peaked. When Sherlock left to go back to the hospital, John blocked the doorway. 

“Stop, Sherlock. Do you feel alright?” He reached up to feel Sherlock’s forehead for a fever, and felt his skin radiating heat even before his hand touched. “You have a fever, you’re not going in to the lab today.”

“Oh come on, John, I’m perfectly fine. There’s nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock complained, but John wasn’t listening and began steering him toward his room.

“Strange as you are, I’m fairly confident your normal body temperature is not a full 3 degrees Celsius higher than everyone else’s. Now go to bed.”

Sherlock flopped melodramatically on to his quilt, petulant arguing with John and saying his bacteria needed tending-to _today_. John did not argue back. Sherlock bemoaned his lost day of work for a bit longer, but his condition worsened and by mid-day, he had stopped complaining. He was restless, alternately hot and cold as was typical of a fever, but the fact that the fever failed to go down was alarming to John. 

Because Sherlock had been messing around with weird bacteria, it was hard for John to diagnose the illness. He gave Sherlock an over-the-counter medication, and pulled a chair up to his bedside, deciding to keep a close watch. There he sat the whole day, watching Sherlock alternately thrash around and sleep. Once or twice, he tried to leave the room because he was a bit bored, but no matter how sneaky he tried to be, Sherlock’s voice always stopped him at the door.

“Don’t leave me,” Sherlock would mumble, and John was, as usual, powerless against his requests. 

John held cool cloths to Sherlock’s flaming cheeks and forehead as he slept fitfully, trying to bring the fever down, though it remained steady at 39 degrees. He stared out the window, watching the sun travel across the sky. Dust particles danced in the columns of light that grew longer and longer across the room, then disappeared as the sun sank behind the buildings. 

Believing Sherlock was asleep, John began thinking aloud, “I don’t know what you were doing in the lab… We should get you to a hospital. Your fever is severe and not changing… You probably gave yourself a freak mutation of something and I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Yes you do,” Sherlock murmured in the fading light, “I will not go to a hospital. Why would I go to a hospital when I have my doctor right here?”

John smiled, brushing Sherlock’s thick hair away from his hot forehead. This action seemed to sooth Sherlock and he closed his eyes. John continued combing his fingers through his hair until he fell asleep, thinking that a sick Sherlock was one he could handle. He felt comfortable taking care of a patient because he was confident that he was good at it. He wasn’t afraid that he would make a mistake and mess everything up – it wasn’t an uncharted and terrifying territory. 

John sat by Sherlock until his own eyes began to droop. He then went upstairs and gathered up his blankets and pillows, having decided earlier that he would sleep on the couch in case Sherlock needed him. He piled the bedding on the couch and looked in the direction of Sherlock’s door. Seeing as how his fever was still dangerously high, John wasn’t sure the couch was close enough if Sherlock really did need him in the middle of the night. He picked everything up again and carried it into Sherlock’s room, where he formed a little nest on the floor. He momentarily feared the floor would be too uncomfortable, but the sound of Sherlock’s quiet breathing soon lulled him to sleep.

*****

The next day, Sherlock was much the same, however his fever slowly crept down and, though still present, was no longer at a concerning level. He stayed in bed with very little argument, and John determined that the illness had exhausted him more than he would admit. It was unusual for John to see Sherlock so vulnerable, and he didn’t exactly know what to do with it.

Throughout the day, John brought Sherlock crackers and soup, which he didn’t eat, and books, which he flipped through with little interest. He seemed content to just lay and stare into space, so John left him to it, checking on him frequently.

That night, John slept on the couch, and continued doing so for the next few nights. Four nights after he’d first made Sherlock stay home, he was still sleeping on the couch, even though Sherlock had recovered and was planning on going back to St. Bart’s in the morning.

*****

John awoke to someone gently nudging at his shoulder. He opened his eyes and squinted in the darkness, only to see Sherlock perched like an owl on the coffee table in front of him. It was 3:07 in the morning.

“Why are you sleeping here?” Sherlock half whispered, “Comfort is not one of this couch’s best qualities.” 

“Why did you wake me up? Are you feeling sick again?”

“No, I roam around at night, you know that. I didn’t think you would be here. Why are you here?” Sherlock asked again, puzzled. 

John responded sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he spoke, “I’m here to be close to you, in case you need me.”

“Oh, well I’m not sick anymore. I feel perfectly normal.”

“I know… I didn’t know, though. I thought I’d stay here for a bit, just in case you needed me,” John repeated. 

Sherlock looked at him, and after a moment responded, “I always need you, John.”


	9. Chapter 9

John was now fully awake. His grogginess vanished as he realized this was it. The mental map he had thought through so completely and pondered over so much was now completely worthless, because here Sherlock was, bringing it up. Of course he would do the one think John had assumed he _wouldn’t_ do. 

John sat up, and Sherlock unfurled his limbs and sat normally on the coffee table so that they were facing each other eye-to-eye. Their knees were touching, and John found it calming rather than intimidating, as he half expected it would.

Sherlock continued, “Before I met you, I was… entirely lost. I was trapped inside my own mind and I couldn’t get out. I had absolutely no reason to continue living, and the only reason I hadn’t died yet was because I thought death might be more boring than life. But then you appeared that day in the lab, and you made everything right... You found me. You somehow pulled me back to the world and I don’t know how you did it. We work together perfectly and _I have never had that before_. You’re different than anyone else I’ve ever met, and I… You think everything – well, most things – I do is fantastic, even though I’ve hurt you. I’ve hurt other people too, and they all seem to hate me. You don’t hate me. Why don’t you hate me?” 

“I do hate you. But only sometimes – I could never really hate you. You did the exact same thing for me. I was a dead man before we met. Every night for weeks, I stared at my gun, thinking I should just end it all. I had a limp, for God’s sake, and I was shot in the shoulder. If anything, it was you that found me. I wasn’t alone, and I felt so alive. But then you died, and I… Sherlock, I’d do anything to make sure you never disappeared again. But, you know this type of thing isn’t my, uh... my area. I have no idea what to do and I don’t think I’d be good at it,” with this, John launched into a description of his mental map that was equally as detailed as it was irrelevant. He tried to explain his fear of being a disappointment, and of not knowing what to do. As he continued, he knew he wasn’t making sense, but since he’d started talking, he was getting nervous, confused and panicky. The thought that he could still lose Sherlock over all this was flashing in front of him like a hideous neon sign.

“John, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock, interrupted John’s babbling, noticing his increasing fear. “You are the only thing that slows my mind down, but I seem to have the opposite effect on you. I should never have expected this from you… I suppose I didn’t expect it so much as I hoped, but you’ve already done so much… I understand. I’m sorry.”

“What? No, it’s ok, really. Sherlock!” John sputtered, raising his voice and grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders, “I didn’t say I don’t want to try, I said I don’t know if I will be good enough for you, you idiot.”

“What?” John could see surprise and confusion mixed in Sherlock’s eyes. He still wasn’t used to someone accepting him without criticism or questions, John noted. 

“I said, it’s ok,” John said slowly, “You are ok. I’m only trying to warn you, I’m going to be bad at it.”

“You won’t be bad, you’re – ” Sherlock began, but his words disappeared into John’s mouth as John bridged the gap between them and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. “- You’re perfect,” he gasped as John pushed him back against the low coffee table.

*****

Sherlock was caught off guard, but recovered and instantly met John with equal passion. He parted his lips slightly, and John did the same. Their mouths worked perfectly together, exploring each other in a kiss that was more than overdue. John thought for a fleeting second that kissing Sherlock was like finally getting a drink of water when he wasn’t even aware he’d been parched. Once he started drinking, he couldn’t – and didn’t want to – stop. Nothing had ever tasted so good. Every emotion he’d ever experienced engulfed him, and it was mesmerizing.

Almost effortlessly, Sherlock shoved John to the floor and pinned him on his back, looming over him. His hands were on either side of John’s head, reminiscent of their first unexpectedly impassioned encounter, but this time the power the stance conveyed was neither terrifying nor unwanted. John let himself be ravaged by Sherlock’s tongue, which had quite obviously been wanting this longer than he had originally thought. He tried desperately to match him, but Sherlock was notorious for possessing a boundless energy when it came to things that interested him, and he was definitely interested in John. As far as John was concerned though, they could keep it up forever. He didn’t really need to breathe his own air; Sherlock’s air was more than enough. 

“I trust you,” John gasped suddenly, between kisses. 

Sherlock pulled away, straightening his arms and staring into John’s eyes, “I love you,” he responded with deep intensity and a look in his own eyes that would render anyone defenseless. 

“That too,” John replied, reaching up and tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, bringing his mouth back to his. “I love you, too,” he breathed against his lips, which sent shivers tingling down both their spines. 

They returned to their passionate, time-intensified kisses, neither appearing to grow tired of the elation even the smallest of caresses brought with it. Their hands wandered, each man surprised at the amount of muscle the other seemed to have hidden beneath his skin. John, deciding he’d already gone this far, grabbed the hem of Sherlock’s t-shirt and pushed it up to his arms. Sherlock seemed to be waiting for it and sat back on his heels, quickly pulling his shirt off and tossing it across the room. When his mouth returned to John’s, his kisses were even more intense than before. Sherlock’s lips moved across John’s jawline and down to his neck. The sensation of Sherlock’s hot breath on John’s neck made his back arch involuntarily. But then it got to be too much; John had no idea what was going to happen next or what he was supposed to do. His eyes flew open as sheer panic overtook him.

Sherlock stopped and pressed his forehead against John’s as they both panted for air, “It’s alright, we don’t have to do anything else tonight. I’ve only just gotten you, and the last thing I want to do is scare you away. I know how foreign this must be.” 

“You can’t scare me away, but… thanks,” John replied, relieved. After a beat, he continued, “It might be ok though, I think, if we…”

“If we slept together?” Sherlock finished John’s sentence with a smile. 

“Sorry, it’s all still a bit strange,” John explained, sheepishly. 

“Don’t apologize, John. Your mere existence makes me incalculably happy, anything else is just extra. My bed?” Sherlock asked, “I still have one of your pillows from when you slept on my floor the other night.”

“I did notice that, you know.”

“Yet you said nothing.” 

“Yeah, well, I’ll be getting it back now, won’t I?” John grinned.

“That you will.”

*****

In a moment, they had reached Sherlock’s room. John stretched out on the bed, and having a moment to think clearly, realized he was exhausted. Sherlock curled up beside him, resting his head on John’s shoulder and hooking one of his legs around both of John’s. He picked up John’s hand and began tracing the lines in his palm, while John marveled at the effect Sherlock’s touch still had on him even though they had just done _so much_ touching. He supposed it might not ever really go away, and he hoped it wouldn’t.

“You are good enough for me,” Sherlock broke into John’s thoughts, “Please don’t ever say that you aren’t. You’re much better at being a person than I am… You’re incredible, you know. Promise me you won’t ever say it again,” he whispered, tilting his head so he could see John’s face. 

“Ok,” John returned, “But only if you promise to never leave me again.”

“Promise.” 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and leaned his cheek against the top of his head. In the seconds before sleep overtook him, he noticed Sherlock’s hair smelled faintly of warmth and musk.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! This is my first fic ever, so thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it ♥


End file.
